I remember how simply having all my memories could make me happy.
I could easily convince myself once that things ending was not too sad, as long as they had been lived.
When I was 23 and told this my 49 years old lover, he almost was personally insulted by the kind of strength that I was trying to show here.
Now, only 3 years later, I have to laugh about my younger self.
Of course, I had felt like living through the stories that life had to tell was wonderful. I had no idea what kind of stories it would have ready for me. How could I?
There was a time in my life that felt so good that I was really looking forward to every new day. I imagined aging to be interesting, and was not afraid to be detecting my first wrinkles one day. After all, wrinkles just like scars would tell the stories that I had been through.
Now that I am getting terrifyingly close to 30, I can tell you that the thought of very soon being detecting my first wrinkles is terrifying as hell!
Lately, I had to deal with stories not being granted to happen, and with memories only being imagined, and what had once motivated me became surprisingly painful.
Things come to an end and we cannot always go back.
I will never again be 20 years old and able to get drunk on beer while eating cotton candy and solving maths sheets with my best friend again. I can never again be that kind of curious.
Becase stories take place and bring new experiences with them, new feelings, and afterwards we might not be the same anymore. The curious feeling from five years ago is part of my past, and I was forced to move on. Not every youth finds a clear definite ending as hard as a pandemic stopping the world for years and everyone being locked away from each other for an uncertain amount of time, but in my case it was.
This is now also a part of my story.
So, right now I am locked up with wrinkles to look for and am musing about memories … I better get this witching novel written!